


Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Past Abuse, narcissistic parents, tentative reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: And so the ancient motto of House Trevelyan goes. Hadiza returns to the ancient jewel of a city of her birth, answering a call she cannot resist, from the last man in Thedas she wishes to call upon her.





	

           Ostwick was a city that blossomed. Where its sister city, Kirkwall, was carved into the very cliffsides, with iron-wrought spires piercing the sky like accusatory fingers, Ostwick was a city of dome-topped buildings, crowded together, growing from the rolling hills and mountains like a crowd of soft, dewy mushrooms. Shielded by walls, it had withstood centuries of prosperity, and boasted the finest fleet of merchant ships outside of Antiva. None too few of those ships bore the crest of House Trevelyan, coasting out into the open waters, laden with trade goods bound for distant ports as far as Nevarra.

        The streets of Ostwick were wide and straight, neatly paved, echoing of the influence of Tevinter and Orlais alike, splashed with Rivain’s own architecture. Minarets rose from the Chantry, where the bells hung behind lattice windows and tolled to call the faithful to prayer. The grand square boasted a marketplace of sundry wares, thieves and cutpurses, and nobility all mixed together as Ostwick teemed with quiet life.

        Hadiza had never taken the time to appreciate the city of her birth, but she did, now. She entered the city quietly, cloaked against the latent chill of winter fleeing in the face of a blossoming spring. Her belongings consisted of a single pack and Nyx, her Friesian, whom she led by the reins into the city proper. Samson, also cloaked, glanced around nervously. Even after two years, he feared a blade in the back, though for good reason. The wound in the sky was still fresh, and the songs of his perfidy were still sung in the seedier taverns of many cities across the Marches. Hadiza linked her living arm with his, and then laced their fingers.

        “You don’t have to do this,” she told him softly as they made their way deeper into the city, which was surprisingly quiet. After the loud, almost festive feel of Zazzau and Dairsmuid, Samson felt as if the city of Ostwick was…empty. The scent of jasmine didn’t permeate the air, instead replaced by the vaguely brined scent of the sea beyond the dual walls. He glanced at his wife, who wore that expression that told him she was being sincere.

        “I know,” he said to her, “but I don’t want you to be in that place alone.” Samson rubbed his chin, scratching at his stubble. “Aside,” he added, “last time you were there it wasn’t exactly anyone’s finest hour.”

        Hadiza laughed. “No, it wasn’t. But…I don’t want you to feel as if you must defend me at every moment of every day.”

        “Princess, I swore an oath.” He said, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he fought a grin. Hadiza wrinkled her nose and he resisted the urge to plant a kiss on it.

        “Your oath doesn’t encompass the gamut of…oh.” She swatted his arm as he erupted into laughter.

        “Oh come on, princess,” he said as she snatched arm away from his, putting distance between them, “we both know dealing with your family is more dangerous than any beast we’ve tangled with in the wilds.”

        Hadiza said nothing as Samson caught up to her, dodging a courier as he made his way in the opposite direction, his pack flapping at his side.

        “I cannot believe you compared my family to darkspawn hordes.” Hadiza said, “How rude.”

        Samson sighed. “Hadiza, I’m sorry. Your father’s an ass. That’s the long and the short of it. What kind of man hates his daughter for being who she is?”

        Hadiza froze, halting the mare she was leading, and Samson swore beneath his breath.

        “Shit.” He muttered, “Shit, princess, I didn’t mean…” He rubbed his face. “Should have never opened my damned mouth.”

        Hadiza took a deep breath, and exhaled. Samson watched as a frosty mist blew from her nostrils. The tingle at the nape of his neck told him everything he needed to know, and he planned for a lengthy and thorough penance later.

        They didn’t stay in the city as planned, and instead, rode straight away to the outskirts, watching as the alleyways and avenues gave way to quieter, well-kept estates. Hadiza recognized the blazons of a few of the noble families, but House Trevelyan’s estate was halfway up the hill upon which Ostwick was built. It was an enormous and sprawling property, with an ornate gate bearing the rearing Friesians that were their family’s symbol. Hadiza noted that unlike the last time she visited, the estate itself had undergone cosmetic repairs. The weathered damage she’d seen nigh three years prior had been polished and repaired. The estate’s grounds had been immaculately kept, and the fountain, which had been in disrepair before, was pristine, bubbling cheerfully in the center of the paved drive.

        A stable lad was there to take their horses, while servants dressed in the livery of House Trevelyan, deep green velvet with gold brocade, came to collect their luggage. Samson felt awkward being waited upon by servants and the like, but he bore it with the same sour look he bore everything else about House Trevelyan. As far as he was concerned, the three daughters he met were the only parts of its legacy he found to be worth their salt.

As they entered the large estate, and were escorted from the vestibule into one of the parlors arrayed with plush couches, pillows, and brought refreshments of spiced honeycake and Rivaini coffee, Hadiza’s brow furrowed.

“Seems a bit...exotic for the old Bann’s tastes, don’t it?” Samson asked, brandishing one of the delicate cups before pouring himself a steaming helping of the strong beverage. In the long time he’d known Hadiza, he had grown a particular fondness for Rivaini food and drink, and the coffee served to keep him awake during particularly dreary meetings he was forced to attend. Hadiza took one of the cakes and nibbled.

“I do not think he would serve Rivaini delicacies and drink, and array his parlor thus, unless he wanted something.” She said carefully, “Still, it is hospitable that he’d even consider it.”

“So glad you approve, Hadiza.” Her father’s voice startled her so much she dropped the cake. It fell pitifully into her lap. “After all, it wouldn’t do to have the Inquisitor and her gallant knight be inconvenienced by such trivial formalities as a little hospitality.”

Hadiza rose, replacing the honey cake on the side of the serving tray, hastily wiping her hand on her breeches. Her father was older, and the last two years had been unkind to him. The wrinkles in his face had deepened, and his hair was the color of rain-slick iron, but his voice still carried the weight and authority of _Bann Trevelyan_ , whose ancestors had been amongst the first to lay the foundations of the dual walls that kept the mighty city of Ostwick safe. Even so, Hadiza had seen and done far too much to be cowed by his mere voice, but he was still her father, and there was something about his presence that made her feel as if she and her accomplishments were still paltry and childish by comparison.

She swallowed hard.

“Father,” she greeted evenly, “how kind of you to think of us in this way. I trust our visit has not caught you out of sorts?” Bann Trevelyan’s eyes were dark, glittering like refined obsidian. There was a shrewdness about him that Samson disliked. He had seen such looks in the nobleman of Kirkwall, the ones who truly carried weight, even beneath the martial might of the templars. He had seen the way such men looked at him in those bygone days when he was nothing but skin and bone and rags. Mercenary work had taken him outside of the city, and away from their judgemental and shrewd eyes, Maker be praised, but he never forgot what it felt like to be looked upon so disdainfully.

And Bann Trevelyan was all too happy to remind him.

“Nonsense, Hadiza,” he said, his tone saccharine, “I would never spare any expense or hospitality to open my doors to my eldest daughter. Still, it has been far too long since I last saw you. The stories that have reached my ears about your exploits have been...difficult to credit.”

Hadiza’s face was unreadable.

“Truly? And what stories have you heard?” She asked. Samson felt something in the air change. It would always be so between Bann Trevelyan and his eldest daughter, he thought. The two of them talking was akin to two killers with blades half-drawn, poised to strike at a moment’s notice. He could feel the tension in Hadiza without having to look at her, knew her pulse was hammering in her throat.

Hadiza never faltered.

“Well,” Edward said, shrugging, “there was something about you becoming an abomination in Rivain, about you riding a dragon, and then getting married to a war criminal. One you yourself captured and tried in the Inquisition’s own court.” He laughed, dry and amused, but his eyes were cold as they settled on Samson.

“And I thought to myself: ‘certainly my eldest daughter knows the devastating ramifications of doing such a thing? She would never in her life be foolish enough to wed a man who is not only past his prime, but a war criminal no less, and offers nothing but the shame of his tarnished reputation and name in exchange for the power and status of warming the Inquisitor’s bed.”

The words struck Hadiza like arrows, but where they once might have crippled her resolve, they fell just short of truly harming her. Still, Samson wanted to take her hand, and remind her that the world had already shouted these very sentiments at them--that it _still_ shouted--and that he was still here. He’d made the mistake of walking away from her once, and it had nearly killed them both.

He had sworn an oath, after all.

Hadiza smiled.

“The stories you’ve heard of me, father,” she said conversationally, “are all true. I would be happy to regale you with how things actually happened, of course, preferably after my husband and I have been bathed and rested, and a suitable meal served. Surely House Trevelyan’s famed hospitality can provide that much courtesy to its tired guests?”

Samson wanted to smirk. Hadiza _did_ smirk. Bann Trevelyan went tight-lipped with rage, and he bathed Samson in a baleful gaze momentarily before returning his attentions to his daughter. His eyes flickered to her false arm, sparing it a surprised but cursory glance before giving a firm nod.

“It will be so. You and your husband may avail yourself to aught you might wish while here. The evening meal will be served soon. Until then, you may do what you wish.”

“Oh,” Samson said with a smile, and he did take Hadiza’s hand then, “you may be sure of that, my lord.”

Edward looked momentarily disgusted, but then turned on his heel and strode from the room. When the clip of his bootheels were out of earshot, Hadiza and Samson exchanged a glance and began to laugh like children who had gotten the better of an adult.

Later, when the servants brought their luggage to their shared room, Hadiza ordered a bath drawn. Together, they stripped out of their road-worn clothing and shared the bath, laughing and slipping all over one another as they attempted to make love.

Samson struggled to hold onto her, found her as slippery as a fish and leaned back with an exasperated sigh, still replete with laughter.

“Not like ours back home,” he said tiredly as Hadiza attempted to mount him, “can barely sit down in this thing.”

“It’s frustrating.” Hadiza grunted, then gave up, “Ugh. Trust my father to steal the satisfaction by giving us a room with a small tub. This is an affront on my sensibilities.”

“I highly doubt your father planned this far ahead in the game, princess.” Samson said, looking at her through heavy-lidded eyes. Hadiza’s hand splayed on his chest, threading her fingers through the coarse, dark hair.

“Mm. No, not likely. Still, he told us to do what we wanted until dinner, and don’t think I didn’t hear that promise in your voice when you goaded his anger, love.”

Samson smirked, crooked and mischievous.

“What? I did no such thing,” he said, mildly affronted, “I’m a changed man these days, princess, thanks to you. Seen the light, turning away from the path of evil, all that…”

Hadiza pursed her lips, eyeing him incredulously. Samson’s hand vanished beneath the water, and she yelped when his fingertips brushed over the folds of her sex.

“Alright, maybe not entirely turned away,” he said with a shrug, “but I’m alright, I think. Sometimes. Maybe.”

Hadiza laughed, splashing him playfully and received another brush of fingertips in turn, making her hips jerk forward. Samson roused like a wolf to the scent of blood, drawing her closer.

“I’m not convinced,” Hadiza murmured as he drew her in for a kiss, “you’re duplicitous…mm…”

Samson said nothing, seeking to muffle her declarations of his evil with his mouth. She kissed him hungrily and for a moment it seemed as if the size of the tub wouldn’t matter.

“Hold still,” he murmured, reaching down, trying to fit his cock to her entrance. He felt strange, as if the world were tipping to one side. Hadiza adjusted, and then suddenly she pulled away with a gasp, screaming as the tub’s back legs broke and sent the thing tumbling to one side...with them sliding out. Water splashed all over the marble floor, and they got up, naked and shivering; slipping and laughing.

“Maker’s shitting breath!” Samson swore, looking for somewhere to steady them both. Hadiza slipped again, sent them both tumbling to the floor.

“I can’t believe this!” She cried, glancing at the tub, which lay quiet and pathetically broken on the floor. Samson sighed, wincing. The floor was decidedly too cold.

“Told you he set us up.” Hadiza muttered as he hauled her to her feet and they made their way back to the bedroom, wrapped in robes. As if to add insult to injury, a discreet knock on the door alerted them to a servant at the door, who told them dinner was ready to be served.

Thus thwarted, Samson and Hadiza dressed in their finery and went to meet the Bann for the evening meal. As they stood at the top of the stairs, Samson halted Hadiza and she glanced up at him, silver eyes wide with an unspoken question. Wordlessly, Samson reached across and tied off her left sleeve neatly, having become adept at the task. Hadiza’s surprise melted into something akin to warmth, unnamed and undefinable. Samson let himself linger in that look a moment, his hands gentle on her silk-clad body. A throat being cleared broke the spell, and they looked down to see Bann Trevelyan staring at them, looking none too amused or pleased. Still, he withheld his usual retorts and deferred to decorum.

Samson and Hadiza descended the stairs and for once, Samson felt himself a true lord and not just a man lucky enough to be on Hadiza’s arm. He was, after all, her husband, and a knight of surpassing skill. Despite everything, he refused to allow the Bann to take this away from him, this small joy of being able to do something as trivial as aid his love in dressing herself.

Dinner was quiet for the most part, but Samson would own it was rather delicious. Ostwick’s cuisine consisted mostly of fresh seafood and light wines; baby squid fresh-caught and cooked in their own inky juices, spiced shrimp, and seared salmon, thinly sliced and arrayed around a dish of wild rice and black beans. It was savory and satisfying, and Hadiza occupied herself with clearing her plate.

Only when the meal was finished, plates cleared, and dessert served--an array of sticky yogurt balls, doused in a syrupy sauce--did Bann Trevelyan allow for table conversation. Although he was not as partial to sweets, Samson felt he couldn’t eat just one. While he ate, he wondered which one of the Trevelyans would draw their sword first.

“So,” Bann Trevelyan said, “is the demon entirely gone?”

Samson nearly choked, and quickly reached for his wine to cover up his sputter. Hadiza’s grip on her own wine goblet tightened, until the color drained from her knuckles.

“Yes.” She said evenly, “My aunt Djeneba exorcised it physically, while I fought and slayed it in the Fade proper.”

Samson hesitated, watched Hadiza closely, but she seemed to be bearing the dredging up of painful memory with the same grace and courage with which she bore everything else.

“How can you be sure?” Edward asked nastily. “How do we know you aren’t lying?”

Hadiza set her goblet down heavily.

“Because, father,” Hadiza met his gaze, “if I were, I would creep into your room and peel the flesh from your bones and laugh.”

Bann Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed, but Hadiza’s gaze was unwavering.

“You certainly haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic,” he said, covering his discomfort with a hard swallow of wine, “I suppose you’ve no reason to lie.”

“No,” Hadiza said, her voice wintery, “I do not. Anything else you want to know?”

Edward dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

“Not at present,” he said, “Hadiza if you can peel yourself from your other half for a moment, might I have a word with you in private in my study?”

Hadiza hesitated. Beneath the table, Samson squeezed her thigh in reassurance.

“That shouldn’t be any trouble.” She said quietly and rose from the table. Per decorum, Edward rose as well, and for a moment Samson nearly forgot to stand. Hadiza reached for the stump of her left arm, rubbing it beneath her sleeve. Then, with a gesture, Edward escorted her to his study. Samson watched them go, and reached for his wine, tossing back the dregs before glancing around. He remembered very little of the Trevelyan Estate, but he knew where the stables were. A good ride would suffice.

* * *

Hadiza could not hate her father--not entirely--for while so much of her childhood home had changed, his study had not. The heavy oaken desk was still polished, the windows still clean and letting in the soft, golden light of the sun as it began to set. The wall of cubbyholes containing various scrolls on one wall, neatly tagged. Hadiza smiled to herself, remembering how Edward would let her and Aja open the windows as children, so that the breeze would make them flutter like dozens of tiny white butterflies. The opposite wall held a bookcase that boasted a small but prestigious collection. Along the wall behind Edward’s desk was an immaculately kept map of Thedas, crafted on thick, fine leather, and very detailed. Hadiza smiled, and remembered the map from the war room in Skyhold, laden with injuries from daggers, and tried to imagine her father’s horrified look if he ever saw it.

The door clicked shut as Edward went to the cabinet containing choice liquors, ornate glasses, and a decanter. He did not offer Hadiza a glass, and instead gestured for her to sit. Hadiza remained standing momentarily, and then finally sat down. Only then did her father sit as well, across the desk from her. She felt small again, childish and maudlin, as her father gazed at her as if she were a small girl who had just been caught terrorizing the kitchens.

“I remember when you were barely up to my knee,” Edward began, “and I caught you in your mother’s chambers, draped in her dresses and jewelry, flaunting yourself in front of the mirror. You were so confident in your appearance and made us call you Highness for days. Your mother wasn’t even furious, and she was always so meticulous about the keeping of her things.”

Hadiza swallowed, remembering. She had a feeling Samson would have loved to hear about that particular memory. It would have explained her current tastes.

“And now you are a woman grown,” Edward said, savoring a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair, “and bear the honorific of the Inquisitor. I suppose I should have known then, that you have your own mind, and will do as you please and damn the consequences.”

Hadiza didn’t smile, but she wanted to. She traced the elegant embroidery on her dress, and wrinkled her brow as she felt the ghost of her left hand, trying in vain to create symmetry in the movements. Edward’s gaze fell to the tied-off sleeve, and his expression softened.

“How did it happen?” He asked, and there was, for once, no malice in his tone. Hadiza felt her guard lower, felt the glimmer of that old filial affection flicker to life. She wanted, briefly, for things to be the way they were before the Circle, before that night she outed herself as the thing her father hated the most. Her hand touched the stump, knew the stretched and thickened scar tissue by rote. She thought back to the moments of terror and uncertainty, and found to her surprise that moments she swore would be as vivid to her now as they were when they happened, were fuzzy and uncertain; like the dull ache of a wound she couldn’t remember how she received. She blinked slowly, and met her father’s gaze.

“Do you remember how the people called me Herald of Andraste?” She asked him. Edward scoffed.

“How could I forget?” He muttered, “Ridiculous nonsense. You disabused them of that notion, memory serve.” Hadiza pursed her lips momentarily.

“Yes, I did. But their reasoning was not entirely farfetched. I did walk out of the Fade, and I was escorted by a female figure made of light. It would have been an easy enough conclusion to make for one not trained as a mage.” She watched her father carefully when she spoke, but he was unreadable.

“The mark on my left hand was the source of my power. I was able to repair the damage done around Thedas. What I didn’t know was that this power...belonged to someone else.” Hadiza hesitated. For some reason, she wished her father had asked about the demon, the one she had fed with her own foolish pride since she was a girl, the one that had followed her like a shadow just beyond her field of vision, the one that had nearly destroyed her from within to without.

She didn’t want to talk about Solas.

“The person it belonged to wanted it back, I imagine.” Edward drawled. “I hope you dealt damage in kind. Whatever else you have become, I know I ensured you had the best combat training money could buy.”

Hadiza allowed herself a wry smile.

“Old Ricardo’s lessons have stood me in good stead if you must know, but I am afraid it was a matter of magic and not combat prowess.”

Edward’s expression soured. “Of course it was.” He sneered. “Is there nothing you mages don’t meddle in?”

“You wanted to know, father,” Hadiza said evenly, “you can hold your irascible insults until I’m finished, at least.”

Edward smiled thinly, then gestured for her to continue.

“The mage who began the cataclysmic event came to collect his power. Unfortunately, it had already done irreparable damage. He removed it without killing me, but not without…” Hadiza waved the remainder of her left arm. Edward’s expression softened again and he looked away, as if the sight of his daughter’s injury did not bring him joy like harming her with words did.

Hadiza wagered that did not bring him joy either.

“I’m…” Edward began, “I am sorry you had to suffer.” Hadiza blinked.

“Not all of it was suffering, father,” she said softly, “there were times of immeasurable joy too. Everything has to find balance.”

“Such as when you married the Red General?” Edward asked acidly. Hadiza frowned briefly, then sighed, shutting her eyes. When she opened them, she exuded a calm she did not feel.

“Alright,” she said, “let’s get it out of the way, father. You’re angry. Yes, I married Samson. He hasn’t been the Red General for a long time, and I’m no longer the Inquisitor.”

“You didn’t even **think** of anyone but yourself, did you?” Edward shot back. “He fucked you, you liked it, and so you flaunt your sordid little romance in the faces of everyone. Do you know the ridicule I faced when the word broke that you were...you were cavorting with him? Do you know what I went through attempting to dispel it as mere rumor and slander, only for you to turn up on my doorstep with him on your arm?”

Hadiza didn’t flinch. She had born far worse from men more powerful than her father. And yet...the words stung.

“I am sorry if my decisions rebounded on you, father,” she said, “I truly am. But I ceased being a daughter of House Trevelyan when I was 14 years old. You remember? When you had me carted off to the Circle while I was unconscious?”

Edward frowned.

“You know the rules, Hadiza. Or at least, you knew them. You were a mage, and you had to be sent to the Circle.”

“I was a mage at six years old, father. And you were none the wiser.” Hadiza said cooly. She tilted her head. “You were content to love me and uplift me as your successor until you found out that magic was in me.”

“Hadiza, I had no choice!” Edward snapped. “I had no choice but to turn you over. How could I look the other families in the face? How could I look them in the face knowing I harbored an apostate in my own home?”

Hadiza felt something in her break open, a wound she had forgotten about, a distant ache that thundered back fiercely to become a pain so sharp it stole her very breath. She took a breath, could not fill her lungs fast enough. Memories, sealed away behind a wall of time, of dedication, of focus, and _purpose_ , broke open to the surface, to the present, and suddenly she was scared, and she was 14, and she was hurting.

“You had a choice,” she heard herself say, her voice a broken whisper, “you could have protected me. Knight-Commander Frederick--”

“--was sleeping with your mother.” Edward said nastily. “After I gave her a life of wealth and prestige. She lacked for nothing. She wanted for nothing. And he was my oldest friend. And he betrayed me.”

“So you gave me up to what? Get back at her?” Hadiza asked incredulously. “You tore me away from my life to hurt my mother for her infidelity?”

Edward was quiet. Hadiza hoped he saw the absurdity of it, the ruthlessness and cruelty of it, and the fault lines in her spirit from the irreparable damage that night had done. Hadiza felt herself growing up all over again, distancing herself from the wide-eyed 14 year old girl, and she reached blindly for _The Inquisitor_ , the mask she wore when the world became too much.

“I never intended for you to get hurt,” Edward said at last, his gaze sliding away from hers. Hadiza felt herself grow. She was on her throne, and he was before her to await judgement. Her breath came quicker.

“I...there is a lot that we kept hidden from you and Aja both,” Edward continued, “and your mother’s infidelity was one of many. I was so angry. I tried to turn a blind eye to it, but the more I ignored it, the bolder she became. When I confronted her, she told me she had done her duty as my wife and to allow her some semblance of joy.”

Hadiza stared at her father, struck speechless by the revelation. Her father swallowed hard, drowned the grief with a hard swallow of his drink.

“She told me that I had not made her happy, not since she came to the household. She told me how she hated everything about Ostwick, the life we had here. I...I never knew how unhappy she was. Not until I saw how she lit up whenever she saw him. Not until that night I introduced them.”

“You beat her for it.” Hadiza whispered, accusatory. She watched her father’s breath fog as the temperature in the room plummeted. Edward shivered, and he suddenly looked small and frail to her. Suddenly, guilt wormed through her, and she withdrew her power into herself.

“I did.” Edward admitted, “And when she fell ill...I felt...she deserved better, Hadiza.”

And Hadiza watched from behind her mask as her father broke down and wept. In his grief and his guilt, he confessed. Hadiza would never know why the guilty felt compelled to confess to her, but confess they did, and her father was no different.

He confessed. Told her how he had hated her when she was born, but had grown to love her because she reminded him of Evangeline.

 _Maribasse_. Hadiza thought defiantly, determined to honor her mother’s memory.

He told her of the first year, when he watched her mother nurse her, watched her grow into the lovely girl child he felt proud to be seen with.

“You were reciting the Chant before your first tooth came in,” Edward laughed, sniffling and wiping his face with a kerchief. “I was so proud of you. Kesson…” He grimaced at the mention of his dead son’s name.

“Father,” Hadiza said, and couldn’t stop herself from speaking, couldn’t stop the torrent of compassion in her, “I...everything I ever did was for your approval. _Everything_. I only ever wanted to be your pride and joy. It’s why I chose to become a warrior instead of hiding away in the cloisters with other sisters in the Chantry.”

Edward stared at her incredulously.

Hadiza pushed back her hair with her hand, laughing, wanting to cry, but laughter was so much safer, rife with hysteria.

“Maker’s breath, father. I didn’t _ask_ to become a mage! I never...I never wanted this, and even if I did, my intent was never to betray you. I wanted nothing more than to be a templar, to be a warrior and defender. But apparently fate had other plans for me.”

“It was your mother’s infernal blood--” Edward began but lightning flashed in Hadiza’s eyes, dangerous and real. Edward tasted the charge in the air, and felt, for perhaps the first time, what his eldest daughter was capable of.

“My mother,” Hadiza said quietly, “was a daughter of the noble House Faye of Rivain, one of the most powerful mage families of the nation. If magic ran in her blood, it was not a source of shame, but of pride.” She leaned forward, her face stern in the lamplight. “And I will damn well stop apologizing for it. I am what I am, father. Either you will disavow me, or you will accept me. But I will not serve at your pleasure to be the bearer of both your guilt and shame.”

Hadiza knew her father always as an eloquent man, knew that he could contend with the worst of the Twelve of Ostwick, but when faced with his shortcomings, and this new, hardened version of his daughter, he was speechless. She did not know what to think, truly. She had expected a profound satisfaction at finally having gotten the better of her father, but having torn down his defenses and drawn her line in the proverbial sand, she felt...disappointed in him. Disappointed that he had squandered the years hating her mother, hating Hadiza for being a mage, hating Aja for failing to become the perfect replacement, and for what?

Remembering her mother’s journals, Hadiza felt in the wake of her disappointment, a wave of sympathy. In truth, she did not think her father realized what he had become, but she hoped he realized he could change.

“Why did you call me here?” She asked him. “Why now? I’ve done nothing but disappoint you since I was 14. I’m a mage, and I love my magic. I...I married possibly the most undesirable man in all of Thedas aside from Grand Duke Gaspard himself, and I am madly in love with him.” She met her father’s gaze. “As far as I know, I am everything you revile. So why did you call me here?”

Edward stood, leaning on his desk. Hadiza watched him intently, feeling her confidence grow again, feeling herself freed of one last chain from her past. She waited, bracing herself for the worst.

“Did I ever deny you anything before the Circle, Hadiza?” Edward asked, “Did you lack for aught? I loved you--I still love you--you are my daughter, I can’t help it. And while you and your sister can never be marriageable, I still love you both, as I loved your mother. And when I heard that you had nearly bled to death in some mage’s twisted netherworld, I…”

Hadiza knew, could taste it. She knew it too well not to know it.

 _Fear_.

Edward swallowed.

“I didn’t want to know that our last moments were us at one another’s throats. I meant what I said when I wanted you home, when I _welcomed_ you home.” Edward met her gaze, and Hadiza drew back slightly, overwhelmed by his vulnerability. She had never seen her father in this way. Her father smiled, defeated.

“I’m so sorry, Hadiza,” he said, “I’m so sorry that I robbed you of those critical years of your life. From what I hear, you were an excellent pupil, and that you’ve a rare gift for healing. But do not think I did not regret or agonize in those years. There were rules, and I had little choice in the matter.”

Hadiza felt accusatory words blossom on her tongue and wither in the same breath. She waited.

“When your mother died, I was...I was lost. There was no one here, and Aja refused to speak to me. And when she left, there was only my new wife, and my infant son. And yet…”

“It was not enough.” Hadiza finished softly, not trusting her own voice beyond those words. She understood, more than she could say, what that was like. She had not seen her family when she went to the Circle. And the first she saw of them was when Aja had come stumbling through the gates of Skyhold. Edward smiled grimly.

“I tried to love them, truly. I tried to connect with your sister, but there was an anger in her, a resentment I couldn’t place.” At that, Hadiza winced. She knew intimately the source of that anger.

“It was my own damned fault, I suppose,” Edward continued, “I doted on you. You are beautiful, like your mother was. You’re gifted, and you’ve an aptitude for picking up on combat. I suppose that was your mother’s gift as well. Aja was too rooted in the earth...but when she gained momentum, she was unstoppable.”

“Still is.” Hadiza said with a thin smile. Edward laughed, but it was reserved and weak, almost fearful to let his daughter see him in this way. Hadiza swallowed, looking down at her hand in her lap.

“It’s...father, I don’t want us to constantly be at odds,” she said, “because of what I am. It was one of the breaking points I had with Cullen.”

“But not with the Red General?”

Hadiza looked up sharply at her father’s accusatory tone, and her eyes were hard.

“His name is Samson, father.” She said in clipped tones but Edward shrugged. Sighing, she regained her composure. “Samson understands me in a way no one else seems to...or wants to, rather. Cullen, like you, was very...conservative on his views of mages. In his defense, he had good reason for it. But...I cannot abide ill treatment when I’ve done nothing wrong save exist.”

“You became an abomination, I heard,” Edward said sharply, “allowed yourself to be corrupted by a demon.”

Hadiza shook her head. The memories were not buried too deep, and they crawled to the surface, filling her to the brim with the old fear and dread. Her eyes darted, seeking her reflection.

“I did it to save his life,” she whispered, “and in the end I triumphed. It can be done, else Rivain would not have survived all these centuries.”

To that, Edward had no ready retort, and so he merely stared at his daughter, taking in the transformation she had undergone. He saw steel in her, the same he’d seen in her mother, but where her mother had bent and warped beneath his cruelty, Hadiza had endured, become tempered and honed. She stared at him with clear eyes, and he felt a twinge of fear. She was not only a mage...she was so much more than that. Edward glimpsed it, an unquenchable flame beneath her skin, and a gravity in her gaze that was hard-won and weary with wisdom...and truth.

“You are free to leave, if you wish.” Edward said softly. Hadiza looked momentarily struck, but she nodded, rising and leaving.

Later, she found Samson in the library, staring intently at a book. Hadiza didn’t glimpse the cover, but as she entered the room, Samson looked up as surely as if she’d called him. Hadiza felt, in that moment, like herself again, but the weariness hadn’t left her. She debated relaying everything to him, if only to see if the burden of truth could be shared, but she realized, looking at him, that it was not his burden to share, whether he wished it or no.

“You arguing with yourself, princess?” Samson asked, his tone teasing. Hadiza smiled, distracted, coming to him as he made room on the plush couch for her to sit. She stretched out across his lap, taking easy comfort in the touch of his hand to her hair. There were a dozen different things Samson did that continuously surprised her. When first they crossed paths, face to face, blade to blade, Hadiza would have never even comprehended the possibility that he was capable of such affection or gentleness. She never would have seen past the blood on his blade-ready hands, would have never imagined them touching her as if she were the most precious being he’d ever beheld. Nor would she have counted on him coming to know her so intimately that he could read her moods so readily, and provide exactly what she needed.

“No,” she murmured, idly reaching up with her hand to tangle her fingers in his, “I’m...my father and I had a lot to discuss.” She smiled to herself when Samson pressed her knuckles to his lips firmly, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Well, nothing’s on fire, so I’m going to assume it went as well as it could go.” Samson said, not pressing her for answers. Hadiza was grateful for it, and they let the matter rest there. She had a lot to think about, but for now, she wanted nothing more than to forget the dull ache in her chest that suddenly swelled, making it feel tight.

Samson held her hand tightly, and said nothing when he heard the small, choked sob, the shuddering intake of breath. Hadiza felt grief renewed, and hated herself for it. She was always grieving in this house, in this place. Ostwick was a void in her memory, a place filled with shades and shallow impressions she could barely remember, but her parents were vivid; a splash of color against the washed out backdrop of the jewel nestled in the bosom of the Marcher Coast. Her mother’s laughter, her father’s indulgent smile as he watched her and her sister play, fight, and practice. Hadiza mourned the life she lost, and grieved for the years wasted nursing that bitterness; until it hardened; compressed by determination; by passion and compassion, until it became a heavy diamond.

Hadiza let out a breath, and set the diamond down.

“I’m alright.” She whispered, letting go of Samson’s hand to wipe her face. Samson’s fingers ran through her hair, massaging her scalp.

“I know, princess.” He responded quietly.


End file.
